


Scenes from the Hogwartsian Life

by Niitza



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Blood, Crossover, Dark Magic, F/F, F/M, Gen, Gore, Hufflepuff!Dean, M/M, Ravenclaw!Cas, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-06 14:13:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1860999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of slices from Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak's life during their years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, from 2004 to 2011.</p>
<p>Not necessarily in chronological order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September 1st, 2004

"Ravenclaw!"

With no outward reaction beyond an imperceptible smile of satisfaction, Castiel carefully took off the Sorting Hat and stood up. He handed it back to Professor Singer, then made his way towards the Ravenclaw table, whose occupants were still clapping—but neither whistling nor whooping.

Ravenclaws, after all, knew how to behave.

On his way he met the approving gaze of one of the prefects, a sixth year with auburn hair gathered at the back of her head in a strict bun that matched the impeccable tidiness of her clothes. Then he caught sight of his cousin Anna, of the smile in her eyes, warmer than the curve of her twitchy lips. She gestured at the bench beside her, where just enough room had been left for him to sit, as if she'd known from the start he would end up here.

Given the third year's talent for divination, buoyed by dreams she couldn't yet control, it wouldn't have been surprising.

Castiel clambered over the seat, trying his best to be discreet in the renewed silence that had spread through the hall as the Hat pondered over yet another first year's potential. Anna ruffled his hair as soon as he was settled, earning herself a half-hearted glare. As he tried to smooth the stands back in place, Castiel met the hesitant gaze of the girl sitting opposite him. It was another first year, one of the Durkheims, if Castiel remembered well. She smiled while the blonde boy beside her nodded with an exaggerated solemnity at odds with his awful haircut. Castiel returned both greetings with a brief incline of the head and brought his eyes back to the front of the room just in time for the Hat to sort a girl into Slytherin.

He kept his attention there until the end of the ceremony. The last student to be sorted was a sandy-haired boy named Winchester—a name Castiel didn't recognize. Given that he'd heard of nearly all wizard families at one point or another in his life, thanks to his parents' status and connections, he surmised that that first year was one of the muggleborns. The boy hurried to the chair, shoulders hunched, clearly uncomfortable with having the attention of the whole room directed at him and deeply aware of everyone's growing impatience and hunger. He tensed further when the Hat was settled on—or, rather, around—his head, hands tightly gripping the bottom of the chair. Fortunately for him, the Hat didn't take long to make its decision.

The boy went into Hufflepuff.

He scurried to the table under the cheers of his new housemates and the yodels of one of their prefects, Gabriel, another one of Castiel's cousins. Then Professor McGonagall stood up to bring the ceremony to a close. One sharp glance from her was enough to quieten the whole room before she started speaking.

After that, the feast itself finally began.

 

*

 

Dean Winchester couldn't sleep.

It wasn't that something or someone was disturbing him and preventing him from reaching the land of dreams. On the contrary, everything seemed designed for him to do just that. His mattress was extremely comfortable, soft and thick, a world away from the flat lump he was used to. The pillow was fluffy, the sheets clean, the blankets warm and heavy. They surrounded him like a cocoon. There was even the soft snuffle and rustle of someone else sleeping nearby.

But that someone wasn't Sam. That room wasn't Dean and Sam's room.

That whole place wasn't home.

Sure, home was nothing but a crappy fixer-upper, a drafty one-story shack waiting for the push that'd make it crumble. It was a kitchen with a leaky faucet that dad never managed to fix and only two plates working on the stove that they couldn't afford to change. It was a bathroom with a cracked mirror and poor water pressure in a struggling, lukewarm shower. It was a tiny living-room with a ratty couch and a second-hand TV from the eighties, a perpetually humid hallway and stairs that creaked so much you could never be sure they'd carry you all the way to the top. It was a shared room barely larger than a closet, with a window that screeched and a shelf too weak to hold the weight of Sam's first books.

But it was home; dysfunctional, true, but familiar, and _normal_.

And that huge, magnificent castle, which seemed to have been taken right out from the fairytales that Dean had been reading to Sam for years, with its hills and lake and forest, with its towers and stairs, with its _magic_ —that castle _wasn't_. It couldn't have been further from it, actually.

Yet here Dean was.

He felt trapped. Somewhere deep inside of himself, he clung to the thought—the hope—that this was nothing but an extremely elaborated prank. Unfortunately, that theory kept becoming more and more improbable. The thing with the owls and the letters might have been a joke, as could've been that guy Sonny's speech when he dropped by to explain everything, after dad had sent the birds away with a threat to shoot if they came back. Hell, even that whole street in London, Diagon Alley, could've been nothing but a huge movie set with a lot of extras that didn't care about ridicule as long as the pay was good.

But the goblins at the currency exchange office? The train and its hidden platform at King's Cross? The freaking castle, and the ghosts, and the indecent amount of food appearing out of nowhere, just like that, like you only had to wish for it—like normal people didn't have to steal or feel the tearing claws of hunger, didn't have to make do with water and their imagination in order to fill their empty stomach? That went so far beyond anything resembling a trick.

Dean hated it.

He remembered Sam at the train station, looking so small on that platform, so out-of-place. He'd been the one urging Dean onto the train, almost pushing him inside, because he couldn't follow but would've given anything to be the one going. He'd made Dean promise that he'd enjoy everything, that he'd learn and experience as much as possible and tell Sam all about it until Sam could join him there.

But Dean couldn't. How could he, when he was separated from everything he knew, when his whole universe kept being turned upside down by things no one else here batted an eye at? How could he, when his family was kilometers away, and he had no way of knowing if they were okay, if Sam was okay? Every bite of that endless dinner he'd eaten with guilt, with worry, wondering if Sam had eaten, if he'd get to eat the following day, or the day after that; wondering what would happen next time the grocery jar wound up empty while dad was away. Now, lying in the best bed he'd ever been allowed to use, he wondered how his little brother would fare, all on his own, next time John disappeared for an undetermined amount of time.

One of Dean's roommates—Dean didn't know which one, didn't want to know, didn't want to know them or anything about the world he'd been thrust into—snorted and turned over in his bed, briefly startling the young boy out of his thoughts.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, buried himself under the covers and ignored the noise, ignored everything. He wished for sleep. He wished that when he'd wake up it would be at home—in his bed, between his scratchy sheets, under his blanket full of holes, with Sam whining about not wanting to get up. He wished that he would open his eyes, and all this would turn out to be nothing but a (crazy, crazy) dream.

 

(But of course, it wasn't.)

 


	2. September 7th, 2004

When it came to how education was delivered at Hogwarts, Castiel had very fixed ideas—which, unbeknownst to him, were actually little but an exact replica of what he'd heard from his parents during the various evenings and receptions they'd held over the years. The guests, all belonging to old wizard families, were always all too eager to agree with them. Therefore, the little boy had only ever been comforted in his half-conscious conviction that whatever Father and especially Mother said _had_ to be true.

They had an opinion on almost every little thing, too. It ranged from the repeated criticism of the rule forbidding students to use magic at home during their first years (because really, how do they expect the children to ever learn?) to the discreet disapproval towards classes mixing muggleborns with the other students. Not that the Novaks had anything against the muggleborns, of course not. These children had a right to an education, no doubt about it. But why put them together with students that had been in contact with magic since they were born, when they barely knew how to properly hold a wand? The disparity of level between both groups was an insufferable hinder. It only slowed down the progress of wizard children by turning their first years into nothing but a _joke_ , while the muggleborns barely kept up. No, the latter should be put into special classes to make up for their knowledge gap, while normal children would benefit from classes suited to their level and needs.

Such ideas sounded very reasonable and self-evident to Castiel's young mind. And now that he was in Hogwarts, he was best placed to test them—that is to say, selectively watch out for the things that confirmed them.

Before the first week of class was through he'd found plenty. Especially-

" _No_."

All students, most of them already sitting astride their brooms, turned their heads when they heard the refusal. One of the Hufflepuff boys was standing, stiff as a board, holding his stick like he thought they were learning to sweep instead of fly. His hand gripped the wood so tight that his knuckles had turned white and his brow was scrunched up into the stubbornest frown Castiel had ever seen.

Professor Hooch arrived in front of him and stopped, hands on her hips.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Winchester?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

The boy defiantly glared up at her. "You bet there is!" he said. "I'm not climbing on that thing, I'm not crazy!"

He sounded indignant and almost scornful. The professor's eyebrows climbed higher.

"You're a muggleborn, right?" she said. "I understand that this might all seem new to you and your parents, but I can guarantee-"

"It has nothing to do with my dad or magic," the boy interrupted. "Give me a freaking Airbus and it won't change a thing, I'm not flying, I'm not a _bird_ -"

"Okay," Professor Hooch stopped him, lips now curled in disapproval. "That's enough. I don't know much about muggle schools but I'm pretty sure they don't allow such language, so you'll do the same here as you did there and mind your tongue."

"I'm not flying," the boy mumbled, face red with anger and humiliation as he'd noticed he was the center of attention. "You can't make me."

Professor Hooch huffed. "Clearly not," she said. "But what I can do is send you to the Headmistress at the end of class."

Castiel heard several students breathe in sharply of even gasp at the threat, among them Rachel, who was standing to his right. For his part, he was wondering what an 'air bus' was. Surely he would've heard his parents talk about it if muggles had managed to make vehicles fly like wizards could.

"I'm not flying," the boy repeated, now glaring at the grass but still standing his ground.

"Very well," the professor replied over the whispers his reaction elicited. She took the broom from him. "Go sit down out of the way and stay there until I come fetch you at the end of class. That'll be ten points from Hufflepuff."

Not looking at anyone, the boy stalked through the rows of students, shoulders hunched. Once he was a dozen feet away he threw himself down, legs crossed, arms crossed, face almost purple, avoiding everyone's gaze.

He stayed that way until the end of class.

Still, it took Professor Hooch nearly ten minutes to have the other students quiet down and pick up where she'd left off.

And that, Castiel thought, was why muggleborn should definitely be put in special classes.

 

*

 

Dean still felt like he couldn't breathe when he entered the room meant for Transfigurations.

He was the first to arrive. He'd skipped lunch after his meeting with the Headmistress because he wanted to avoid his housemates' looks and questions—and because he'd gotten lost thanks to the frigging _moving_ stairs. _If you can't find your way, just ask the portraits_ , one of their prefects, Jody, had said. Only Dean wouldn't be caught dead talking to a painting, let alone ask it for directions. He wasn't crazy.

Too bad everyone in this place _was_ and therefore thought _he_ was the weird one.

He made his way among the tables and chairs and sat down in the back corner, as far away from the board and the entrance as possible. Hopefully his housemates would get the message and leave him alone.

Not that it would change much. He'd barely talked to them since the first day and now they probably hated him. And it hadn't even been a week.

Less than _one_ week and he'd already been sent to the Headmistress' office. Good job, Winchester.

Oh, she hadn't been mean. She'd calmly looked at him over her thin glasses, stern but understanding. They knew that Dean needed a bit of time to adjust, she'd said, so they wouldn't contact his father just yet. But wouldn't he agree that it would be easier for him, for his teachers, for _everyone_ if he made himself more open to what he could learn here? It'd only take the smallest effort from his part, really. He'd fit in in not time.

Dean, who had never felt like he fitted in even when he'd been among normal people, in a normal school, snorted when he remembered her words. _Easier said than done, Professor McStuck-Up_ , he thought.

When he'd nodded back in her office, the Headmistress had felt his skepticism and had pinned him on his seat with a sharp glance. If his behavior didn't get better, there'd be warnings and detention, she'd said. And if he didn't change his attitude then, they'd have no choice but to let him go.

For all Dean cared they could, right now. After all, he didn't want to be here. He wanted to be home. He wanted to eat stale bread in the morning, take Sammy to school and back on his bicycle even when it rained, do his homework with him on the rickety kitchen table and have beef stew cooked out of tin cans for dinner. He didn't want to be so far away, in a school where he was getting on every teacher's nerves. He'd ridiculed himself in front of all of his comrades who probably thought he was an idiot and a coward for not wanting to fly. And now his housemates hated him too, since he'd already started to make them lose points.

Their prefect Gabriel had been very clear: if a house hadn't enough points by the end of the year, the teachers would fail every single of its students. The way things were going, it was going to happen and it would all be Dean's fault.

So yeah, it'd be better for everyone if he left already.

Only Dad wanted him here, not at home. Sam too. They wanted him to learn all he could about magic, about what it could do, about what it might have done to Mom, and tell them everything afterwards. If Dean got expelled, Dad was going to _kill_ him.

Students were starting to trickle in. Dean slid further down his seat, trying to disappear under the table and attract as little attention as possible. He clenched his teeth.

He was _not_ going to cry.

He was so focused on willing down the knot squeezing his throat that he didn't notice the girl walking up to his table and sliding onto the bench beside him until she spoke up.

"Hi," she said.

Dean tensed even more.

"What?" he growled in reply, throwing her a wary glance.

"Can I sit here?" she asked, tucking a strand of her bright red hair behind her ear. "I mean, I'm already sitting here so maybe I should ask if that's okay with you. Only I'm not moving, so-" She noticed Dean's deepening frown and paused. "Okay. Let's start this again." She straightened and reached out a hand: "I'm Charlie."

Dean looked down at it but didn't move to shake it.

"Dean," he mumbled after several seconds of silence.

The girl took her hand back, in no way discouraged by his rebuff. "You're a Hufflepuff, right? I'm a Gryffindor," she announced proudly.

 _Great for you_ , Dean thought, but didn't say. Why was this girl talking to him? Couldn't she see that all he wanted was to be left alone?

"And you're a muggleborn. It's okay," she hastily added when Dean bristled. The word—which he hadn't even known existed up until a week ago—was starting to seriously piss him off. "I am too."

At that Dean bit back his angry words and eyed her. "Your parents don't have magic either?" he asked.

"Nope," the girl, Charlie, replied. "My Mom is an English teacher and my Dad an accountant for a small publisher. The only magic we knew about was the one in the books. We were very excited when I got my letter."

"Dad tried to shoot the owl," Dean said.

He'd nearly shot the guy who had come to explain afterwards too. Dean was glad that he hadn't, in the end. For one, Dad killing someone would've created lots of problems. He probably would've gone to jail, maybe _magic_ jail, and there would've been no one left to take care of Sammy. Besides, Sonny was cool. When he'd come, he'd had a cowboy hat and _cowboy boots_ —which had looked weird with his checkered suit and Hawaiian shirt, but still. And he was nice, too. Apparently there'd been a mix-up, he'd said, and Dean had been put in with the kids from wizard families instead of muggle ones, so he hadn't received the letter with the extra information.

He'd stayed for hours, answering Dad's questions.

"What I mean to say is, I know how it's like," Charlie was saying. "So we should stick together."

Dean pursed his lips as he thought it over. "You're happy to be here?"

"Where?"

"Here, at Hogwarts," he said, waving his hand around to encompass the whole castle. "With all the magic and the weird subjects and all that crap."

"Well, yes," she replied with an uncomprehending blink.

"Then you don't know what it's like," Dean said, crossing his arms and turning away.

"You mean you don't like being here?" the girl insisted. "How can you _not_ be?"

"How can _you_ be?" Dean retorted.

Charlie floundered. "Magic, that's how. Dean, they have _dragons_. Dragons are a real thing here and we'll learn all about them."

"I don't want to learn," Dean mumbled, eyes prickling. He really didn't need someone who claimed to be like him to make him feel like a freak too for not being excited. "I want to go home. I want my brother."

Charlie's gaze softened. "I don't have brothers or sisters," she admitted. "What's his name?"

Dean, who never passed up an occasion to talk about his little brother, found himself replying: "Sam."

"He's younger than you, right?"

"Yeah. And my job's to take care of him. And I can't do that here."

"Did he tell you not to leave?" Charlie asked.

"No," Dean snorted. "He was stoked for me, jealous almost. You know what, you'd get along great, actually, if _he_ was here instead of me."

In that second the teacher stepped into the room, cutting their conversation short. The students had already seen her the week previous, on Thursday, for the introduction to her class and they already knew that Professor Harvelle was not to be trifled with.

Which is why Dean was surprised when, not five minutes into the class, his neighbor slid a piece of paper towards his half of the table.

 _I still think we should be friends_ , it read.

He frowned. But when he drew the paper towards him, fully intending to write a large NO underlined three times, he made the mistake of looking up. He met the Charlie's friendly brown eyes, saw the insistence in her raised eyebrows, the nervousness in her smile.

She was the first person who hadn't given up at once when confronted with his glares and hostile answers. And she was new to all that magic crap too, even though she was much more okay with it all than him.

Maybe she could show him how to see things the way she did. Maybe she'd agree that most of the things happening around here were crazy, the only difference being that she liked crazy. Maybe that was why she seemed to like him.

All Dean knew were two things: one, he couldn't go home; two, she was right about one thing: dragons sounded cool. 

So he wrote quickly: _Ok_.

She beamed at him. He grudgingly returned it, then went back to taking notes as Professor Harvelle finished explaining today's exercise.

By the end of the class—and after several peals of laughter in face of their failed attempts at reproducing what Professor Harvelle had shown them—Dean felt better. He felt like maybe things were going to be okay.

He'd even gotten the spell right twice.

 


	3. September 11th, 2004

_Hogwarts, sept 11, 2004_

_Dear Sammy,_

_How are you? I hope you are okay, and dad too._

_I'm sorry I write so late, but you said that I had to write about all the cool things there is here and the first week was ~~dif-~~ a bit messy. I think school started at home too. How did it go? Is your class ok?_

_Here things are weird. Everyone wears the uniform dress all the time, it's like they don't have other clothes. And theres no real pen, I have to write everything with a feather and it puts ink everywhere (you can probably see that). It's like were all back in the middle age. Theres no TV, no lamps, only candles. The stairs move all the time so its difficult to not get lost._

_But I have to talk about nice things. The school is actualy a big ~~casle~~ castle, its really really big. It looks like a honted castle, there are even ghosts, I swear. Theres one whose covered in blood and another one who nearly doesn't have a head. Our ghost is called the Fat Frier, I think he died because he ate too much, he's really fat, but he's nicer than the other ghosts. I say our ghost because it's the ghost of our house. There are four houses, griffindor, slitherin, ravenclaw and hufflepuff and I'm in the last one. Our dorms are near the kitchens, so it always smells good. The food is prepared by weird creatures, their called house-elves, they look a bit like Gollum but they have a big nose and big ears and they wear more clothes and they're ~~more nice~~ nicer and they do everything you ask. There's a lot of food here and a lot of it is weird, like pumpkin juice. But its good. You'd like it. Are you eating ok? I don't think I can send you anything, I don't think it'll still be good for you when it arrives, but I can ask._

_Its the weekend now and we had a whole week of class with weird classes. We don't have maths or english here so that's cool. There are classes that are almost like back home, like herbology that's like biology and history of magic that's like history and it's boring too only the teacher is a ghost so we can see right thrugh him when he writes on the board and thats funny. There's potions that's like cooking only with weird ingredients so it's not very hard. But we have things with real magic to, like charms and transfigiration and we use our wands and everything and it actualy works. The other day Mrs Harvelle, that's the teacher for transfigiration, she ~~taut~~ ~~taugh~~ showed us how to turn a ball into a dice and I did it! You'll see, I'll show you when I come back. What classes do you have? I hope the teachers don't think you'll suck becuse your my brother, did you show them you can write and read better than the others allready?_

_We have a class that is called defense against the dark arts to. The teacher reminds me a bit of dad. You can tell dad I'm paying a lot of attention in that class like he asked me and I do a lot of reading in the library only there is a lot of books so it'll take a long time for me to read everything and find what he wants but you tell him I do what I can and I take notes and I'll tell him everything when I come home for Christmas. Do you want me to bring you something back from here for Christmas? People that are in third year or more can go out into town sometimes and I can ask one of our prefects to buy something when they go if you want. We have six I think, one is called Jody and she's super cool and nice and another one's Gabriel and he eats so much sweets I bet he has cavitis but he told me he doesn't because there's magic against that. I asked him why so many people wear glasses then, becuse I think if you have magic against cavitis you should know how to heal your eyes but he told me it doesn't work like that but I think he just doesn't know so he's stupid. I'll try to find something about that because you read so much you'll need glasses soon and you're allready a nerd you don't need glasses on top of that._

_I don't know what else to tell you there are so many things. Maybe you should tell me what you want to know because I'm sure I forget a lot of things. But I'm doing ok and I hope you are too. I'll send that letter when the library closes. If there's blood on it its normal I think my owl, you remember I called her Zeppellin, I think she's still trying to eat my fingers, like she thinks its a mouse._

_You better write back fast, I want to know everything about your start of the year and how you're doing. I bet you're happy to have the bedroom to yourself. Here I sleep in a dorm with the other boys in my year, there's Benny and Garth and Aaron and I think Nick but I'm not sure, I don't talk to him a lot. Their ok. But even if I'm not at home the bedroom is still half mine so if you put your books and clothes and things on my bed you'll pay and now I have magic so we know who'll win._

_But I have to work now so I'll have ok grades and don't get ~~expell~~ expeled, so I'm stopping here._

_~~I miss~~ I hope dad's ok too._

_See you soon,_

_Dean._

 

*

 

Castiel entered the library early on Saturday morning, his head full of the study plans he'd mentally been drawing since he'd woken up. Bag slung over his shoulder, books clasped against his chest, he walked past Mrs. Pince's desk and turned to the right after the first shelf of books, headed right towards-

He stopped.

The table he'd been aiming for— _his_ table, the _perfect_ table, which was one of the rare single tables that was also placed right under a window opening southwards and thus catching the best light during most of the day while standing out of the way, in a quiet corner, the table that he'd found on his first visit over one week ago and used every afternoon after class since then—that table was taken. And not taken by anyone, mind you, not even by a fifth or seventh year Ravenclaw already preoccupied by his or her O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s. No, it was taken by a first year. A first year Hufflepuff. The first year Hufflepuff, actually, who'd made a scene in flying class that very Tuesday.

The boy hadn't made himself unduly noticed in the other classes that Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs shared, but Castiel was sure that he'd seen him nod off during astronomy class on Wednesday. In short, he didn't come off as the most studious pupil. Which was why finding him here, in the library, _at Castiel's table_ , was… unexpected, to say the least.

He was scribbling away on a parchment, head bowed, and had already written far more than any of the assignments they'd been given that week asked for. Around him the table was covered with several piles of books, much larger and thicker than the ones on their syllabus and clearly more advanced. Add to that the fact that he was alone and you had a perfect illustration of Unusualness.

After all, Hufflepuffs were all about team work and loyalty between friends, right? You could see and hear them in the corridors, walking around in boisterous flocks. Yet the boy—Winchester, if Castiel remembered well—always arrived to class on his own and was always one of the firsts to leave at the end of the hour, alone. Similarly, Hufflepuffs were said to be a cheery bunch, but Castiel wasn't sure he'd ever seen that boy with anything but a sullen, wary frown on his freckled face.

Maybe he'd been missorted.

What he certainly was, right now, was a bother. A bother who had _taken Castiel's table_.

The blue-eyed boy narrowed his eyes at the Hufflepuff, half-hoping that the mere strength of his glare would chase him away. It didn't work. The boy didn't react, didn't even notice he was the object of anyone's scrutiny. He blew on the parchment to make the ink dry faster and turned it over to start writing on the back.

Castiel nearly scoffed. Because, really, who ruined their parchment rolls by cutting them up into twelve inches sheets and wrote on both sides?

Parasitical muggleborn Hufflepuffs, that's who.

In that second he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he saw Rachel sitting at a square table with two other Ravenclaw girls, Hester and Daphne, and beckoning him over. Castiel pressed his lips together. He'd wanted to be alone, he worked _better_ when he was alone. But clearly he wouldn't be getting the best conditions today.

Studying in the vicinity of like-minded people would have to do for now.

With a last longing look at his table—which turned into another glare at the Huffflepuff boy—he went to join his housemates, hoping they wouldn't want to _chat_.

Next time he would be here the second the library opened. And then you'd see who would get the table.

 


	4. October 29th, 2004

Castiel hurried down the dark corridor, intent on not being late to Potion class. He was cutting it close: he'd stayed behind after Charms to ask professor Flitwick some precisions about the assignment they had to complete over the weekend and had had to make a detour afterwards to avoid Peeves.

Fortunately he reached the room before professor Slughorn had come back from his office, where he was taking his break. But when the boy stepped through the door, he paused.

Rachel hadn't kept a seat for him. She was sitting in the second row with Hester.

Castiel narrowed his eyes at them. Why hadn't Rachel kept a seat for him? Sure, he hadn't asked, but they'd been sitting side by side in Potions since the beginning of the year, so it was a given that she should. Castiel would have, if their positions had been reversed.

At the same time, it wasn't like his housemates were clamoring for a chance to share his table. His distant, focused demeanor had made sure of that.

He met Rachel's eyes over the heads of their classmates. The girl shrugged, entirely unrepentant. He could almost hear her, criticizing his unwillingness to talk to other people aside from her, let alone make friends. She'd been extremely vocal about it in the past two weeks. And now apparently she was willing to take action.

She didn't understand that "making friends" wasn't that easy for everyone. And anyway, Castiel had to concentrate on his studies. His parents expected good grades of him.

He sniffed haughtily and turned away. Since he'd been among the last ones to arrive, there were only two seats left: one beside Ash and one beside a Hufflepuff.

Castiel felt torn.

Despite being a half-blood, Ash was good at a lot of things; but potion making was _not_ one of them. After nearly two months, it was common knowledge that he was a walking disaster in that class. He was too curious, too creative, somehow. It made him unable to follow the recipe to the letter and to the end, he always needed to experiment.

Most of the time it blew up right in his face.

The Hufflepuff, Dean, hadn't caused anything as spectacular up until now, but it didn't mean that he was more gifted or successful.

Castiel weighed certain failure (Ash) against the unknown (Dean), taking into account the fact that it would be possible for him to steer Dean's actions, as opposed to Ash's. He might reach an acceptable result that way, even if it meant that he'd be doing most of the work.

But it would only be for one class.

Decision taken, he squared his shoulders and walked toward the right side of the room, which was mostly occupied by the Hufflepuffs. Dean was twisted in his seat, leaning towards the table behind him with his elbow propped against it while he talked to his housemates.

"-heard anything from Garth?" he was asking when Castiel reached him.

"Nothin' since yesterday," the other Hufflepuff, a chubby blue-eyed boy with shorn dark hair, replied with a shake of his head.

Dean pursed his lips and frowned in concern. "I thought he'd be back by now. Whatever it was he caught, it didn't look that bad." He paused. "Someone should drop by the infirmary during lunch break to see how he's doing."

"Feel free," his housemate said. "I'm not going in there, it stinks of antiseptics. It'd lay me down flat too."

"Wuss," Dean retorted with a snort.

"I'll go with you," the girl sitting on the blue-eyed boy's left said, half-hiding behind the dark curtain of her bob cut.

Dean smiled at her. "Okay. Thanks, Tess."

None of the three Hufflepuffs had glanced in Castiel's direction, even though he'd been standing right here for some time. It was like they hadn't even noticed his presence.

Typical.

The Ravenclaw cleared his throat pointedly.

"Excuse me," he said when Dean turned his head. "Would you mind if I sit here today?"

The Hufflepuff's eyebrows twitched up and he glanced at his comrades, as if making sure that they were seeing and hearing the same thing as he.

"Yeah, no," he said, flapping his hand. "I mean, you can sit. It's not like the stool is reserved or anything."

Castiel nodded and sat down, feeling uncomfortable under the stare of the boy and girl behind him. It was going to be a long hour.

In that second, Professor Slughorn waddled up to the front of the room, signaling that the start of class. Dean turned around to settle correctly in his seat.

The potion the Professor had planned for them that day wasn't exceedingly difficult, he announced, but preparing it would take up most of the hour. As a consequence, he didn't lose any time extolling the virtues of its particular ingredients like he sometimes tended to and simply explained what the potion was for while the chalk wrote the instructions on the board behind him. It was a protective balm that'd prevent most jinxes from sticking to you like glue—something that'd come in handy during the weekend, as it was Hallowe'en. Everyone knew that the celebrations would inevitably turn into a prank fest, thanks to the likes of Castiel's cousins Gabriel and Lucifer. If prepared well, the balm was even edible, for those who worried first and foremost about jinxes hidden in their food and drinks.

"That'll be your incentive for today," the Professor concluded with a winning smile.

As soon as he gestured for them to start, Dean drew towards himself the thick reference book that sat on every table, complete with detailed illustrations and exhaustive list of most ingredients' properties. Paying no heed to Castiel's confused gaze, he started to leaf through it and… take notes.

It took a moment for the Ravenclaw to understand that his lab partner was checking every single ingredient mentioned on the board, as if after nearly two months of class he still wasn't sure what mandrake leaves looked like or how they should be prepared.

_Muggles_.

Refraining from rolling his eyes, Castiel stood up to go fetch what they needed, like most of the students in the class were already doing—even Ash. Clearly, he had made the wrong choice.

The amount of vials and jars they'd use was too high for him to bring them all back at once on his own. When he dumped the first batch on the table, Dean glanced up from his book in surprise.

"Oh," he said, not noticing Castiel's scowl. "Okay."

He started sorting through the containers, lit the fire under their cauldron with a flick of his wand—the first spell they'd learned in the class—and proceeded to measure water. Castiel hurried to gather the rest of the ingredients. He couldn't let the muggleborn start the potion unattended, even  if the first steps were easy. The boy didn't know any better. He might mess up and thus break the flawless record Castiel had in that class.

He came back before the water had begun to simmer. Dean was chopping an aconite root. Castiel nearly asked him what he thought he was doing, but paused, because the Hufflepuff wasn't doing anything wrong. He was cutting the root perfectly, into thin and regular slices, his movements confident and practiced.

Castiel couldn't help but stare.

Once Dean was finished, he put the slices into a small bowl which he placed between two jars filled with powder and attacked the mandrake leaves. Castiel realized two things: one, that the Hufflepuff had put all the ingredients in a neat row, in order of use; and two, that while waiting for the water to boil he'd decided to prepare everything he could. Which was wise, as part of the receipt asked for the ingredients to be added in swift succession.

The Ravenclaw made sure to put the jars he was carrying down according to when they'd need them and, once seated, followed Dean's example. He picked up the dittany and started pulling off its leaves to throw away the stem.

"Can you summon a timer?" Dean asked once everything was ready and the water was boiling. As soon as Castiel did he dumped the first ingredients into the cauldron—sliced roots, pinches of this and that, all in order and without a glance at the board, as if he'd already memorized the receipt. He looked focused and calm, like he knew what he was doing. Like his first foray into potion making hadn't been less that two months ago.

"You're very at ease," Castiel said five minutes into their first bout of waiting, breaking the awkward silence that had settled. After the base ingredients had been added and the first spell cast, the instructions were to let the mixture simmer for a quarter hour. Everything else was ready—apart from the myrrh, which was to be sliced right before use. Castiel had even magicked the wooden spoon to slowly stir the potion counterclockwise in their stead. So they had literally nothing to do, apart from counting the seconds as they went by—excruciatingly slowly.

Dean only shrugged. "Like I keep saying, it's not that different from cooking."

Castiel hummed noncommittally. He had never cooked in his life, wasn't even sure he'd ever set foot into the kitchen. All chores at home were done by the elves. If he wanted anything to eat or drink, all he had to do was call and Ninny would pop up, ready to take his demands. She'd definitely have a breakdown if he troubled to go down the stairs, let alone infringe on her domain.

But yes, right, he remembered now: muggles didn't have house elves, as elves were magical creatures. And it wasn't like all wizard families had them either. His mom had told him some people were too poor and had to do everything with their own magic instead.

But muggles didn't have any magic, none at all. Castiel frowned and incredulity spread through him as he realized something he'd never considered before. How did muggles _do_? They didn't have house elves, they didn't have magic… Did that mean that they had to do everything _themselves_ , with their own bare hands? Did _Dean_? How did they find the time for what was actually important then, like studies and work?

Suddenly, Castiel understood why muggles' achievements were so "limited", like his parents said.

"It's not rocket science," Dean went on. Castiel, still reeling, wondered was rocket science was. "All you have to do is follow the instruc-"

He was interrupted by Ash's cauldron exploding.

When the smoke dissipated the blond boy whooped. His face was covered in soot and his haircut even worse than before.

Dean chuckled. Castiel sighed in despair—such shenanigans reflected badly on the whole Ravenclaw house, especially since it appeared that Ash had made the accident happen _on purpose_. Slughorn had already come closer to manage situation, advising the students not to lose sight of their own potion if they didn't want the same thing to happen to them.

"Clearly not everyone finds it that easy to follow the instructions," Castiel said, eliciting another chuckle from Dean.

The fifteen minutes were coming to an end. Castiel took hold of the spoon, dispersing the spell since he now would have to alternate between stirring clockwise and counterclockwise at short intervals. There was a spell for that too, of course, but it was a bit too complex for him to feel sure using it already. Dean measured the ingredients and added them one after the other. He always did so right on time, without a glance at the timer whose glowing numbers floated at eye-level.

With another spell, ten minutes spent boiling down the mixture and the last addition of the myrrh, their potion was ready. They'd finished before everyone else and with very little fuss. Professor Slughorn came by to check on them. He inspected the potion, its color, its thickness, its taste even, and smiled.

"Perfect as always, boys," he said. "Let it cool down a bit, but make sure to decant it into jars before it solidifies entirely. You can take it with you, of course."

The words were meant for both Castiel _and_ Dean, and neither the Hufflepuff nor the professor seemed surprised. Like it wasn't the first time Dean had completed the assignment without a hitch and received praise for it.

There were less than ten minutes left, but it was ten minutes in which both boys found themselves with little to do. Soon Dean turned around on his stool again to watch his housemates as they went through the last steps, counting out loud the number of circles the spoon made as they stirred. He even quipped some advice. On the other side of the room, Ash was still mopping up the mess he'd made. Rachel and Hester were a bit agitated, hurrying and fearing that they wouldn't finish on time.

Castiel tried not to feel a vindictive sort of satisfaction when he saw that.

He turned back towards Dean when the boy judged that the potion had cooled enough and started spooning it into two small jars. They'd been good—combining Castiel's knowledge of ingredients and spells with Dean's organization, it had really worked and it had yielded excellent results.

Castiel pursed his lips as he mulled this over. He'd made the right choice, in the end. He had definitely done better than he would have with Ash. Even better than with Rachel, who constantly worried about getting things wrong and always needed to double-check or even triple-check everything. It slowed her down and made her tense. In contrast Dean had remained in control from beginning to end, focused but ultimately relaxed.

When the Hufflepuff put the lids on the jars and pushed one towards Castiel, the Ravenclaw found himself suggesting: "Maybe we could sit together again next time." At Dean's surprised glance he added: "We work well together."

His parents would approve, he thought. Such an offer was strategic, as it would guarantee him good results if things went that well every time. But it was also charitable, since it meant helping a muggleborn overcome the numerous gaps in his knowledge.

"Sure," Dean said after beat, nonplussed. "If you want."

When Professor Slughorn announced the end of the class, the boy was out of his seat in a flash, taking his jar with him.

 


	5. October 12th, 2004 — November 26th, 2004

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the time it took me to update this. I was stuck on the first scene for a long time ;-; For anyone wondering how Dean went from being completely asocial to actually talking to his housemates...

_October 12th, 2004_

It started like this:

"Way to go, Winchester!" Charlie exclaimed as she caught up to Dean outside of the greenhouse where their Herbology class had taken place. She bumped her shoulder against his and he ducked his head, pleased and awkward at the same time.

"It was nothing," he said with a shrug—and it _was_. It had only been sheer luck that Professor Sprout had asked a question about a plant he'd read about the day before while searching for the info dad wanted. And he'd only remembered most of its effects because they were wicked and were exactly the kind that would frighten and fascinate Sammy when he'd tell him about it.

Plus he was pretty sure that Professor Sprout was biased towards Hufflepuffs, what with her being their Head of House and all. That was where the awarded points had come from, more than from Dean doing anything exceptional to deserved them.

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that," Charlie snorted.

"Hufflepuff is still far behind all the other houses," Dean said, thinking of the hourglasses in the main hall, keeping count of how many points each house had. "Five points aren't much, we still have a long way to go to make sure we don't fail the year."

He remembered how many he'd made his house lose during the first month, back when everything had seemed so strange and illogical and absurd that he hadn't managed to follow his usual pattern of keeping his head down. He'd better keep winning points, even if it was only five at a time, to make up for it. Then maybe his housemates would stop hating him.

Preoccupied by these thoughts he didn't hear Charlie's question nor notice her droll look until they reached the courtyard.

"What?" he asked.

"What are you on about?"

"What?" he repeated.

"You know that no house will fail the year for having the least points come June, right?" she said. "It'll just stand no chance of winning the House Cup."

"I know that," Dean said. "But it _will_ fail if it loses too many of them. Didn't your prefects warn you about that?"

"No," Charlie replied slowly. "Who told _you_ that?"

"I don't know," Dean said, racking his brain for the memory of that first day. "Gabriel, I thi-"

He paused.

"Gabriel," Charlie said with a dubious pout. "A.k.a. the Trickster, a.k.a. the one guy you really shouldn't trust about _anything_?"

"He's out prefect," Dean protested, albeit weakly. "Surely he can't get away with feeding lies to the first years. They wouldn't have chosen him or, or he'd have been punished, or…"

He trailed off. Charlie pointedly raised her eyebrows, expressing clearly what she thought of his reasoning.

Dean felt himself flush darkly with humiliation at his gullibility, which turned into anger. His hands clenched into fists as he remembered the past weeks, how worried he'd been with every house point he'd lost because of his stupidity, of his inability to keep his mouth shut and deal with the situation like a grown-up, even if it was less than ideal, even if it kept worsening. He'd avoided his housemates, their greetings and gazes, convinced that none of them were genuine or friendly, that they all secretly resented him, talked behind his back and wished that he'd leave already, before he dragged them all down.

As it turned out, he'd been freaked out over nothing.

"Oh, he's gonna pay," he muttered.

Charlie smiled delightedly, the combination of her bright, messy red hair and of the wicked curve of her lips making her look exactly like the witch she was studying to become.

"I'll help you," she said. "You know us Gryffindors. We're all about honor, especially when it comes to defending it."

 

*

 

That same evening found them in the Hufflepuff common room, trying to determine what exactly they were going to target to make Gabriel regret his actions. They had no worries about being found out by the prefect, as the Hufflepuff dormitories were the one place in the whole castle where he was the least likely to be. Most of the time he could be found elsewhere: in the kitchens, pestering the elves to give him a foretaste of that evening's deserts; at the Quidditch pitch, lurking in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Kali, the fiery Gryffindor seeker who was rumored to have phoenix blood running through her veins; near Gryffindor tower of Slytherin dungeon, trying to infiltrate them to play pranks, especially on his cousins Michael and Lucifer; on the grounds, bothering the Giant Squid or the Whomping Willow; in the corridors, wreaking havoc with Peeves; or up in Professor McGonagall's office, receiving yet another dressing down that wouldn't stick no matter how long or severe it was.

When Dean thought about it, Gabriel alone was probably responsible for the loss of at least ten times more house points than he'd been. And that was being optimistic.

It only made his thirst for revenge deeper.

Charlie had just turned down his suggestion of peppering Gabriel's sheets and underwear with itching powder on the grounds that it was too old school and therefore expected and Dean was about to point that it might have been, had they been in the normal, muggle world, but that magic people probably had no idea what itching powder was, when two of his housemates and roommates stopped by their table on their way out to dinner.

The shortest of the two, a chubby blue-eyed boy, hesitated when he saw them thus involved in conversation, but the other one, a scrawny thing promising to shoot up like a weed as soon as puberty would strike, didn't hold back his curiosity.

"Whatcha doin'?" he asked.

Dean frowned in distrust but Charlie had no qualms about readily answering: "Plotting against someone who really deserves to be put in his place."

Dean glared at her for being so open, as there was no way for them to be sure that they wouldn't tattle. The first boy, Benny, only huffed.

"Let me guess," he said. "Gabriel?" At Dean's surprised, wary glance he shrugged. "It's not that hard to figure out. He messes with a lot of people-"

"With _everyone_ ," the other boy, Garth, whined sullenly.

"-so it's no wonder someone will want to get back at him one day, especially someone like you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean growled.

Benny's easy smile didn't waver. "You just look like the type who shouldn't be messed with."

Puzzlement spread through Dean. Up until now he'd made no effort to speak to his housemates, had studiously avoided them even, so it came as a surprise that Benny could've figured out anything about him, let alone something so accurate. But at the same time they had all their classes together and they shared a room. They were bound to notice things.

"There's strength in numbers," Benny went on. "So, do you need any help? I wouldn't mind bringing the guy down a peg or two. It won't be easy though, he's good."

"I want to help too," Garth said, garnering several surprised looks. Even Charlie had realized that the boy was as sweet as a lamb and certainly not one to hold a grudge, much less act on it. "He stole all my Every Flavor Beans," he explained. "If he'd asked I would've given him some, no problem, but he didn't, he just took them because he could, and that's not fair."

"We'll target the sweets," Charlie announced at once, pointing right at him.

"He's always munching on one kind or another," Dean approved, realizing that what she was suggesting was more than just deserts. Everyone knew about Gabriel Loke's sweet tooth.

"But how are we gonna do?" Garth asked as he and Benny sat down at the table.

"Like Charlie said: by plotting," Dean replied. "And taking our time with it so we're sure it'll work."

He knew all about the proverb: revenge is a dish best served cold. He'd experienced it more than once, in prank wars against Sam but also at school, to get back at the boys who thought that ill-fitting, worn clothes and lack of lunch money were signs that the Winchesters were easy targets.

They'd all come to realize how profoundly wrong they were. Because Dean—and, by extension, Sam—were indeed not to be messed with.

Charlie grinned. "We'll need a codename."

 

*

 

_November 26th, 2004_

It ended like this:

" _WINCHESTER!_ "

Several people jumped at the roar and Dean looked up as he emerged from the staircase onto the ground floor, his potion partner Castiel close on his heels.

Gabriel Loke stood at the other end of the corridor. As soon as he had Dean's attention he stalked towards him, robes flying behind him, face folded into a deep scowl, looking almost menacing despite his short stature—almost.

The effect was ruined by the bright green spots dotting his skin like radioactive chickenpox.

Dean felt movement behind him and didn't need to glance over his shoulder to know that Benny, Garth and Tessa had come closer, flanking him in support. He might have been the initiator of the operation, but they'd taken part in it too—Tessa joining the team after Hallowe'en, which had been an instructive and inspiring experience—and would not let him face the consequences alone.

The next second Gabriel was right in front of him, towering over him since even a short fifth year was taller than a first year, wand in hand. Dean had drawn his too, deeply aware that the prefect had more spells up his sleeve but refusing to back down. He met Gabriel's glare square on, defiantly tilting his chin up to do so.

The fifth year raised his wand. The whole corridor held its breath. Dean tensed, ready to roll out of the way and counter-attack, maybe with Expelliarmus-

The tip of Gabriel's wand exploded, making everyone jump once more. Dean blinked as he hadn't seen or felt anything—until he realized that he was now standing under a shower of… confettis?

"Congratulations!" the prefect exclaimed, scowl reversing itself into a large grin. His tongue was blue, his teeth almost black and his breath stank—all signs that the various spells and mixes which Dean and his allies had used had worked, turning all of his sweets either foul or risky to eat. He didn't seem to care. "You got me. _Me_! It's been so long since anyone managed that or even dared to try, I was starting to despair." Throwing an arm around Dean's shoulder, he started to drag him away, half-strangling him in the process. "You now get the honor of sitting beside me at dinner. You _have_ to tell me all about how you did it."

Dean struggled, but didn't manage to free himself. Benny, Garth and Tessa hurried after him.

None of them noticed Castiel, who stared after them, lips parted, incredulous.

It had been years since anyone had successfully pranked Gabriel. Not even Lucifer could, not anymore. And yet Dean, a first year, a muggleborn, had managed such a feat.

It was unbelievable.

But it had happened.

 


	6. December 11th, 2004 - December 12th, 2004

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** for blood and gore. Dean's memories aren't always a happy place.

As Christmas break came closer—although here they mostly called it Winter or Solstice break—, Dean spent more and more time at the library.

His housemates didn't understand why. First year exams didn't warrant such dedication, they pointed out, and given his performances in class up until now he'd do well, even though he was a muggleborn. Hell, he'd do _very well_ for a muggleborn.

(The exception was flying class, of course. His broom still refused to rise higher than one and a half meter above ground. But it was okay. Dean himself refused to rise higher than one and a half meter above ground. The broom _understood_ him. Professor Hooch might roll her eyes when he told her that, he thought it was progress. And it was as far—or high—as he was willing to go.)

His roommates didn't tease him about it—neither about his inability to do loops in the air at breakneck speed nor about the hours or even days he spent among books, poring over pages covered with too much writing and too few pictures. The worst anyone ever said was Garth joking that maybe he'd been missorted, or warning him that his Ravenclaw potion partner might be rubbing off on him. They didn't ask what he was so worried about, what he was looking for, and for that Dean was grateful.

He didn't want to lie to them.

Thing was, when John Winchester had decided that Dean would go to Hogwarts—callously sweeping aside the protests that had taken all Dean's courage to come out—he had done so with a reason. On the last week of August he'd sat down his elder son and told him what he expected of him.

As a student at a magic school, as someone who had somehow wound up with the ability to use magic himself, Dean would be in a privileged position, he'd said. He'd be allowed and even encouraged to learn everything he could about such practices. So he could be John's infiltrated agent. He could be the asset John needed to finally find out what had happened to his wife.

John had always been convinced that the events of that night, on November 2nd, 1997, hadn't been an accident. That Mary hadn't simply been the victim of a murder, or of an act of arson. Whatever had taken place had been provoked through means that couldn't be explained by reason or science. He hadn't shared his beliefs with the cops, of course. But he'd spent the following years searching for a possible cause, exploring leads about the paranormal, the supernatural, the magical.

He'd never found anything concrete. He'd started thinking that maybe, just maybe he had been wrong, that the trauma of losing Mary had made him rewrite what he'd heard, redraw what he'd seen, because his mind couldn't conceive that anyone human could do that to her.

But then, Dean's letter had come.

Now it was Dean's duty to figure out what had been done to Mary and how, to find a lead on who might be the culprit and why. John thought it was possible because the one thing he'd found out for certain was that the tragedy that had stricken their family hadn't been an isolated incident. Similar cases had abounded all over the UK, in Europe, farther even, mostly spanning the years 1997 and 1998. If their origins were indeed magical, John didn't doubt there'd be a trace of it somewhere. It was up to Dean to find it.

Dean didn't want to disappoint him.

But the thing was, he was young and he wasn't a big reader. Most of the things he'd read he'd done so out loud to Sammy, before his little brother had gotten curious enough and felt big enough to ask being taught the alphabet so he could read them himself. And even then it had been children's books, with large font size and pictures, nothing like the long treatises with their stylized letters, their abstract content, their references to spells or ingredients or events that Dean had never heard of.

And there were so many of them in the library. For the longest time the eleven year old hadn't even known where to start. He'd been so overwhelmed—by that well of information, by everything new and weird he was experiencing at this school. He still was. His progress, slow to begin with, had been impeded by the fact that he was going from the effects and not the name of a spell. And there had been all the other things he had to do, classes and meals and homework and efforts not to stick out too much. The amount of hours he could spend in the library before closing were limited. He couldn't even borrow any book, because he didn't want his roommates to see the titles and wonder, or have Mrs. Pince raise an intrigued eyebrow.

John had been adamant: above all, Dean had to be discreet.

But his father also expected results.

So Dean persevered and remained bent over the table he favored instead of exploring the castle with Charlie or letting Benny and Garth teach him funny jinxes like he wanted to. He'd neglected his task during most of November, his research devolving into schemes and experiments for their prank against Gabriel, and now he felt guilty. Guilty and, when he thought of his father, of his _mother_ , almost ashamed.

He knew he couldn't go home for Christmas without something to show for it, not after all these months.

He'd found part of the answer already. In a book about elemental magic he'd read all about Fiendfyre—about its sentient flames and the fact that it couldn't be extinguished by normal means, about the shapes it could take and the danger it represented. All of it corresponded exactly to the fire that had destroyed their home seven years earlier. It had devoured the walls and the roof, roaring and snaking around as if looking for a prey it didn't find; it had started to spread to the neighboring houses and the fire department hadn't been able to control any of it—until suddenly it had gone out, like a bad dream. Like a charm.

But Dean knew that what John cared most about was knowing what had happened to Mary. He'd described what he'd seen, hesitant, almost careful, unwilling to go into detail but determined to do so anyway, just like he'd described the fire. That was what Dean wanted to find.

And on that Saturday afternoon, he did.

A reference in the volume used by the sixth years in Defense against the Dark Arts had led him to a book placed in the Restricted Section. Dean had bided his time until Mrs. Pince had left her desk to slip in unnoticed on the heels of a couple of seven years—and then he'd had to wait again, hidden between the shelves, until the librarian was distracted a second time to slip back out with his prize.

It was a recent work, a thin volume about so-called Unforgivable Curses written at the beginning of the 2000's. The book included elements of history, philosophy and morality as it presented three curses that had up until then been given that name. It reflected on their uses, their implications, the reasons why they'd been classified as "unforgivable", the punishments that had been delivered for using them. After that it proceeded to analyze several other spells or curses that might, for one reason or another, be considered "unforgivable" too.

One of them was named Sectumsempra. As for all the other spells mentioned in the book, the part about it started with a description of its effects and purpose.

Dean read. His breath hitched.

The thing that John hadn't known, that he couldn't have known given that they'd never really talked about that night, was that him describing its events, trying to avoid the worst details to spare his son, hadn't been necessary.

Dean remembered.

He hadn't been five years old yet, but what had happened wasn't something he could ever forget. He didn't remember what had made him get out of bed, the noise or the light or the smell. He didn't remember the scene as a coherent whole either, it was more a series of flashes—but of extremely vivid ones: his father's tall shape standing in the doorway to Sammy's nursery, the fire already rising behind him like a snake; his mother lying on the ground, wide eyes staring up at the ceiling and lips working as she seized and gasped, the skin of her cheeks and arms carved with deepening gashes; the dark red of her blood seeping through the white fabric of her nightgown, into her blond hair, into the carpet as it ran out of her; the weight of Sammy being put in his arms as John pushed himself between Dean and the room, trying to prevent him from seeing, telling him to take his brother outside, now; the flames rising up against the night sky, roaring, blinding, cruel.

It all came back to him as he read, an onslaught of pictures and impressions that his mind always carefully avoided, surging back magnified, with a clarity he hadn't expected and had not defense against. Each word of the description cut through him like the curse had cut through his mother's flesh and for a second he was there again, in the hallway in front of Sam's nursery. He saw her chest and throat convulse, he heard the small whimpering gasp she let out, he smelled the metallic tang of her blood.

He slammed a hand over his mouth like it could keep the anguish in, slammed the book shut like it could keep the memories out. Blind and deaf to his surroundings, he abruptly stood up, nearly overturning his chair, stumbled to the side and ran out of the library.

He barely made it to the nearest restroom before he threw up.

 

*

 

"It's time, Castiel, dear."

Castiel looked up from his book to the stern face of Mrs. Pince, which softened into a slight smile, an expression rarely seen on her face. Few were the students whom she directed it at, because few were the students she liked.

Castiel was among them, of course. He was quiet, studious and orderly, respectful of the books. And Castiel liked her in return, because she made the other students quiet and orderly and thus guaranteed that the library was the perfect work environment.

He quickly gathered his things and tidied up the books he wasn't taking with him into a neat pile. As he closed his bag, he heard Mrs. Pince tut disapprovingly. She was standing beside the table Dean had been occupying when Castiel had entered the library that morning. It was in the same state the boy had left it in when he'd unexplainably rushed out early in the afternoon.

Apparently he'd forgotten to come back.

"Do you know the first year who usually sits here, Castiel?" Mrs. Pince asked when the boy stepped closer. Her voice was hushed even though the library was now empty, probably out of habit.

"Yes," the Ravenclaw answered with a peeved frown. It was one thing for Dean to take his table, but it was another to take it and then _not make use of it at all_. And leave it a mess, on top of that. "He's in Hufflepuff."

Mrs. Pince clicked her tongue, unsurprised and unimpressed. "Will you bring his notes back to him?"

Castiel nodded. She took the short pile of books precariously standing at the corner of the table and headed off towards the shelves while he started separating the sheets of parchment from the rest and sorting the volumes into two piles—the ones belonging to the library and the rare ones belonging to Dean himself.

He frowned when he recognized the volumes used by the sixth and seven years in Defense against the Dark Arts and paused when he saw the title of the thin book Dean had been perusing before he'd left. _Unforgivable Curses_ , he read, hand hovering but not daring to touch. He couldn't be sure, but he wouldn't be surprised if it belonged in the Restricted Section. For which he doubted Dean had had an authorization.

He met Mrs. Pince's eyes when the librarian came back, saw her lips press together and her brow furrow when she noticed what he had.

"That'll be all, dear, thank you," she said, hastily but carefully taking the book and gathering it against her chest, title hidden. "You can go now."

Castiel obeyed without protest, taking Dean's things with him—as well as a certain amount of questions.

 

*

 

After dinner, with an hour to spare before curfew, Castiel made his way down towards where he thought the Hufflepuff dormitories were. He hoped he'd find Dean there, as the boy hadn't been in the main hall.

Like most members of the other houses, Castiel only had a vague idea of where he was headed. Common knowledge was that Hufflepuffs dwelled near the kitchens, but beyond that the exact location or means of entry were a secret they hoarded and only shared with their closest friends—who didn't talk either. Castiel slowed down once he'd passed the wide doors behind which he could hear the elves bustling around, busy with the post-dinner wash-up. Being in such an unfamiliar part of the castle unsettled him, especially since there wasn't any portrait on the walls whom he could ask for directions.

He had to double back several times in front of a dead end or of an exceedingly dark corridor. But after a turn, a short flight of stairs smoothed down by use and another turn, he reached a clean, dry square cellar. It was lit by warm yellow torches and half filled with huge barrels stacked horizontally, each of them wider than he was tall.

He stopped. This had to be it. Why would this place be so well lit, the stone slabs so clean, the barrels so polished, if it wasn't?

Still, he hesitated before trying to knock anywhere. He'd heard… things, about the Hufflepuff common room. About what could happen to anyone not knowing the proper way to enter or to announce their presence. Of course, it was nothing but rumors, but he would like to avoid being doused in vinegar or anything of the sort if he could help it.

He narrowed his eyes at the barrels, trying to determine which one was more likely to hide the entrance. Before he could decide though, he heard footsteps approaching and glanced over his shoulder to see a small group of third years turning around the corner. They stopped when they saw him, full of surprise and distrust.

"Hello," Castiel said, aware of how suspicious it could be for a lone Ravenclaw to be loitering around here at this hour. "I'm looking for Dean Winchester, he's a first year here."

Two of the Hufflepuffs exchanged a look, the third one pursed his lips dubiously but finally said: "Fine. We'll tell him. Go wait around the corner."

Castiel nearly gaped for a second, but told himself to be patient—he'd heard all about how protective Hufflepuffs were about their burrow—and did as he was told.

"And don't peek!" one of the girls shouted after him. "Or the Elves will know and tell us!"

This time Castiel rolled his eyes. This was ridiculous. If they didn't want students from other houses to enter, they should have a proper defense system instead of relying on them not seeing or hearing how it was done. Honestly, the ever changing riddles of Ravenclaw tower were so much more efficient.

He didn't make any effort not to listen but didn't hear anything, no voice, no knock, no click of a door opening, no footsteps, as if they'd cast a silencing charm. Or maybe the whole cellar was under such a spell—which would explain why Castiel nearly jumped a foot in the air a couple of minutes later, when someone suddenly poked their head around the corner. He hadn't noticed their approach.

It wasn't Dean.

"Hi," Garth Fitzgerald said. "What do you want?"

"I'm looking for Dean," Castiel replied, dismayed. The third years probably hadn't bothered to look for the boy and had sent out the first first year they'd gotten their hands on. It wouldn't be surprising for Garth to have been their designated victim and to have obeyed without question. "He forgot his stuff at the library."

"Oh, okay. Thanks," Garth said. He reached out a hand to take the objects Castiel was carrying. "I'll give it to him."

The Ravenclaw took a step back, tightening his hold over the parchments, the books and the quill. "I'd like to give them to him myself, actually."

Mostly he wanted to ask Dean why he was researching advanced magic, dark magic. Was it what he'd been doing all this time during the abnormal amount of hours he'd spent at the library? _Why_ was he doing it?

Garth's expression grew less friendly. "Yeah, well, you can't," he said. When Castiel narrowed his eyes, vexed by the refusal to allow him to enter the Hufflepuff basement, he explained: "He's in bed, and not feeling well. He _didn't eat dinner_ ," he added, like it was significant. "But I can tell him you were the one to bring his stuff back."

Castiel looked the other boy in the eye and realized he wouldn't budge—or at least not before curfew had come and gone. So he gave in. With a displeased frown, he handed the parchments to Garth and left.

He nearly got lost twice on the way back.

 

*

 

Castiel was finishing an early lunch the following day, sitting alone at the Ravenclaw table, when Dean came up to him.

"Hi," the Hufflepuff said, hands buried deep in the pockets of his robe. "I wanted to thank you for bringing my stuff back yesterday."

"You're welcome," Castiel replied. After a second of hesitation he asked: "Are you okay?"

He remembered how abruptly the boy had left the library the day previous. Now he looked like he'd barely slept. He was pale, his hair messy and he had dark circles under his eyes. In them Castiel could see the reflection of a distant fright, the haunting shadows of a nightmare, or worse.

"Yeah," Dean said with an unconvincing smile. "Just worried about the upcoming exams, you know how it is."

"You shouldn't be," Castiel replied, although he was pretty sure that Dean's state had more to do with his readings than with stress related to his studies. Yet he found himself unable to ask the questions crowding his mind and burning his lips.

Dean already looked terrible. Certainly he regretted his foray into the Restricted Section. Castiel didn't want to make things worse by blowing through his poorly erected facade.

And if he was honest with himself he feared the answers he might get—or the even more telling lies.

"If you do as well in the other classes as you do in potion, you'll be all right," he said instead, playing along.

"Yeah, sure," Dean scoffed, like he didn't believe him. "But anyway, thanks."

The words sounded like the end of their conversation, yet Dean didn't leave. Castiel threw him a questioning look.

"Do you want to come eat with us?" the Hufflepuff asked, tilting his head towards his house table. His usual group of friends was sitting there: Benny Lafitte, Garth Fitzgerald, Tessa Rafe and Charlie Bradbury. When Castiel glanced over, the redhead perked up and waved over one of her housemates who'd just entered the hall, a slight blond girl whom Castiel recognized as Professor Harvelle's daughter Joanna.

Castiel briefly felt tempted by Dean's offer, his heart thumping because it was the first time someone had asked for his company at lunch. Up until now he'd mostly followed Rachel, but she was spending more and more time with other people, people Castiel didn't know well, like Daphne or Hester, and he didn't like to intrude. So he ate alone more often than not.

This time he almost said yes, but the amount of unfamiliar people sitting at the Hufflepuff table made him change his mind.

"I'm good," he said. "And anyway, I'm almost finished. But thank you for the offer."

He was prepared for Dean to frown or insist or be vexed by the refusal. But the Hufflepuff simply shrugged. "Okay," he said. "But just so you know, any time you feel like joining us, you can."

He left with a "See ya" and a more genuine smile. Castiel watched him go.

When he walked out of the dining hall it was with the invitation carefully tucked away in his mind, the most precious gift he'd get that year.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions and/or prompts about the universe, you can ask on [my tumblr](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com).


End file.
